Shenanigans
12 February 2008 12:44![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skonen_bladesThe future crawls over us to get to the past. We are nothing but bridges.
Soon enough we’ll end up in the Wynding Downs retirement facility, trading memories for poker chips that equal the seconds we have left.
Ticks in our beds and talks with our friends.
Frisbee 45s for DJs that have long stopped spinning.
Now the silence skips.
Turn the tables.
I never knew my grandfather on my father’s side and from what I hear, I’m better off. I hope that’s the kind of shit that doesn’t run in the genes.
A pin-striped tiger looking back from the bars of the mirror.
These are time brackets.
I pulled my heartstrings out of the hands of the puppeteer.
I used them to make a hammock to hang between the horns of my dilemma.
They were leashes. Nothing controls it now.
It’s not a heart, it’s a pulsar.
We carry our stars on the inside.
It’s a kodo drum.
Let it shake the windows of the glass house.
Let’s use the sheets from the bed where it happened as sails.
Work socks became puppets, gloves and tea towels in your hands.
You were the glint at the bottom of the well.
For you, fists, forgotten birthdays, and meth were school supplies.
I remember I got so angry once when my dad forgot my birthday.
But your parents had never remembered yours. Not even once. To the point where you forgot when it was.
You buried a time capsule in your back yard when you were ten and you are never digging that fucker up.
You came into this world like you’d been thrown from a car.
And now here we are.
You on a good day.
Me near the edge.
tags
Soon enough we’ll end up in the Wynding Downs retirement facility, trading memories for poker chips that equal the seconds we have left.
Ticks in our beds and talks with our friends.
Frisbee 45s for DJs that have long stopped spinning.
Now the silence skips.
Turn the tables.
I never knew my grandfather on my father’s side and from what I hear, I’m better off. I hope that’s the kind of shit that doesn’t run in the genes.
A pin-striped tiger looking back from the bars of the mirror.
These are time brackets.
I pulled my heartstrings out of the hands of the puppeteer.
I used them to make a hammock to hang between the horns of my dilemma.
They were leashes. Nothing controls it now.
It’s not a heart, it’s a pulsar.
We carry our stars on the inside.
It’s a kodo drum.
Let it shake the windows of the glass house.
Let’s use the sheets from the bed where it happened as sails.
Work socks became puppets, gloves and tea towels in your hands.
You were the glint at the bottom of the well.
For you, fists, forgotten birthdays, and meth were school supplies.
I remember I got so angry once when my dad forgot my birthday.
But your parents had never remembered yours. Not even once. To the point where you forgot when it was.
You buried a time capsule in your back yard when you were ten and you are never digging that fucker up.
You came into this world like you’d been thrown from a car.
And now here we are.
You on a good day.
Me near the edge.
tags